


Triang Relations

by ninemoons42



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-18
Updated: 2011-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-16 22:35:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/170121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninemoons42/pseuds/ninemoons42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames have been talking about a threesome - and one day they get not only the perfect opportunity for it, but also a willing third participant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Triang Relations

  
title: Triang Relations  
author: [](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ninemoons42**](http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org/)  
pairings: Arthur/Eames, Arthur/Eames/OMC  
warnings: This is very nearly Real Person Slash because the Benedict Watson in this story is none other than Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch - yes, the guy in the BBC Sherlock, the guy we're going to be seeing in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, the voice behind [this rendition of Keats](http://bit.ly/ihs5Ng). And I have parlayed his friendship with Tom Hardy into the story; Stuart Eames and Ben are good friends from way back when. So if semi-RPS isn't your thing - consider yourself warned.  
If you're still here - well, it's a threesome, there's sex, what else is there to warn about?  
Oh, I guess I should say, there's a lot of snark going on here too. :)  
The title is taken from [here](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/TriangRelations) [WARNING: TVTROPES LINK].  
disclaimer: I don't own the original stories, series, or characters. Not making any profit, just playing in the sandbox.  
summary: Arthur and Eames have been talking about a threesome - and one day they get not only the perfect opportunity for it, but also a willing third participant.

  
"Arthur. About that thing we talked about."

Arthur doesn't even bother to look up from his notebook, only raises an eyebrow even as he continues to write down his observations of their current mark, who is feeding the ducks together with her daughters.

A coffee cup hovers in his peripheral vision, and he puts away his pen, smooths down the lapels of his jacket, before accepting the cup. Hazelnut-caramel latte, extra shot of espresso.

He looks at Eames, who is communing with his own cup, and tries to remember if he'd actually given him an order.

He's coming up blank.

So Arthur distracts himself with Eames's question. "Eames, the last time we talked, which was before you went to get coffee, we were arguing over shoes for Philippa. I can't imagine the topic is so important that you'd want to go back to it, unless you'd rather we went back to the conversation before that, which, granted, is about what we're doing right now."

"Trust you to remember all of these details," Eames snorts, never taking his eyes off the mark.

"I don't. I just take notes."

"Be that as it may." Eames is carrying a small digital camera and he takes it out now, aims it discreetly at the woman and at her three children, as they walk away from the ducks. The faint clamor of their quacking carries easily on the wind. "I was referring to our conversation about a third."

"A third." Arthur lets his voice go flat. It's not that he's unhappy with the idea, or that he's not interested. In fact, he sometimes wonders why they haven't actually had this conversation much earlier. The thing that's bothering is something more along the lines of "And we're talking about this now, why?"

Which, in fact, happens to be the right response, and Eames chuckles, rueful and warm, and Arthur looks at him.

"I have a friend coming in next week."

Next week, meaning, after the job.

"And I've actually fancied him for a good long while. Just never got the chance, and do you really take me for the type of bloke to simultaneously out myself and say I'm interested in an all-male threesome to someone?"

"Yes," Arthur snorts, and easily dodges Eames's empty cup, which he picks up and drops into the nearest trash can. "Does your friend actually know about you?"

"He came to me for advice when he realized he was queer himself."

"Because you're such a role model."

"Arthur."

"The point, Eames, is that you're interested in a threesome with me and this friend of yours. If I were anyone else I'd start off by listing all the ways where this could go horribly wrong - "

" - Pull the other one, I know you have that list somewhere on your person - "

" - But, since you're talking to me, you'll know right off the bat that I am interested, that the idea is not without its merits. On the other hand, can I at least be shallow for a moment and ask you what your friend looks like?"

The next thing that happens is Eames grinning and grabbing Arthur in a hug, murmuring happily into his ear, and Arthur says it right back - "I love you" - and he's walking away with him, hands fitting together like a paradox, like a puzzle.

///

Arthur argues loudly for the meeting to take place at their apartment. Eames is equally insistent on meeting his friend on neutral ground - a restaurant, a park, a warehouse.

The friend, of course, has his own ideas.

It's Sunday, the day after the job, and Arthur is making breakfast - toast and sausage omelette, Eames's favorite - when his mobile rings.

Unknown number

He walks back through the apartment, snags his Glock 17 from the nightstand next to a still-snoozing Eames, cautiously hits the call button. "Hawke," he growls, using the false name he used on the job.

"He told me you'd say that," is the response, deep and slow, a voice like honey on rocks, rumbling with amusement.

"I'm sorry, who are you talking about." Arthur knows what he sounds like on the phone when he's talking to someone unfamiliar; he sounds snappish and brisk, businesslike to his toes. Ariadne and Cobb have said that it's like talking to tech support, and he still doesn't know whether to feel amused or annoyed.

This man's voice is so different from Eames's - and yet there's still that tell-tale lurch, deep in the back of his head. The same curl of heat winding through his nerves.

"My name is Ben; I'm a friend of Stuart's. He always did tell me to call if I was ever in his area for a night or two - so, here I am. I'm given to understand you're Arthur?"

Arthur knows he's squinting, knows he's taken the expression straight off Cobb's face, but if this is actually Eames's friend, the person they've been discussing for the past few days....

Eames growls himself awake and stares, bleary-eyed, at Arthur. "Whozzat?"

"Is that Stuart?" Ben says. "Oh god I've woken him up. You must already know what you have to do, first thing in the morning or he'll kill us all."

"I have breakfast ready," Arthur says, to Ben and to Eames at the same time, and Eames grunts and heads out, absently scratching the small of his back, pausing only long enough to throw a robe on before padding out to the kitchen.

"You sound very interesting," Ben is saying, and Arthur blinks. "I would love to meet you and to see him, very much. Perhaps you'd like to come and visit today, after Stuart manages to finish waking up?"

"All right," Arthur says, surprising himself with his own quick reply. "I suppose I should tell you I'll be the man in a suit, standing next to some horrible conglomeration of plaid and other patterns. Wait, what am I saying, of course you know Eames has never had any fashion sense. Or did he?"

Ben chuckles, and Arthur swallows hard. "That is for me to know and you to find out. Maybe. Eventually. I'll text you my location, shall I? See you in a few hours."

///

Sunlit hotel lobby, warmth of Eames's hand in the small of his back. They're standing together near one of the great floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the pool. Rippling light and shadow, and Arthur pushes his sunglasses down his nose, shifts closer to Eames.

"Nervous?" Eames asks.

"Yesnomaybe," Arthur says, one word, his smile a little like a smirk and a little like a grin.

Eames puts his hand behind his head, chuckles warmly. "I suppose I feel a little on edge myself. I...well, let's just say, Ben and I are good friends, all the way back to when we were wee sprogs running around in short pants. And I've liked him for...at least that long?"

"So you're telling me I could have been snogging you all this time?"

It's the voice from the telephone call. Arthur inhales, sharply, and feels himself standing straighter; he pulls his hands out of his pockets, counts to three, before he turns around.

The sunlight falls in the man's face, lights up his deep-red hair and his gray eyes. The smile on his face is...complex, fond and interested and sharp-edged all at once.

Arthur catches his breath.

Eames only surges forward to embrace the man, laughing: "Oh, christ, it's fucking good to see you again, Ben! Finally got out of the fog - what brings you here, then?"

"I'm on hols," Ben replies, affection now lurking around the edges of his laugh. "It's a bit of a slow season; I've just been working on a few things, and then suddenly I asked if I could have a week off, wanted to travel, wanted to get a little rest. I said I was going to try and knock something up while I was out in the sun. But I'm being remiss, Eames, you idiot - when were you going to introduce us?"

It's a line, it's such a line, and Arthur has to laugh at the blatantly interested look in Ben's eyes - and he steps forward, hand out. "I'm Arthur Hardy. Pleased to meet you."

"Benedict Watson - likewise." And: "Stuart, however did you manage to find him?"

"Actually, he found me," Eames laughs, and adds in a low voice: "Shot me right between the eyes, and then we woke up and he said, fucking condescending and everything, you'll do."

"It was all you deserved," Arthur snipes, amused - and then he's staring at Ben, one eyebrow raised, because he's just said nearly the exact same thing.

"Well, well, well - this is going to be interesting," Eames says, and Arthur ducks his head to hide the grin, and nods.

///

"What exactly do you write, again?" Arthur asks when they enter the hotel room. There are books on nearly every horizontal surface, but none bearing Ben's name.

"I'm a ghostwriter," is the quick reply. "You might have read some of my work, if you're into reading biographies. Politicians, mostly, some business blokes. The occasional bubbleheaded show business fool."

Arthur says, "I do a lot of research, but I don't always have time to go through their books if they're going to just fill them with self-aggrandizing shit."

"Right in one," Ben laughs. "It's hardly as exciting and glamorous as your line of work."

"We spend a lot of time sleeping, you know," Arthur deadpans.

"You two are getting along well," Eames says, suddenly, and there's a soft POP.

"Why am I not surprised - you always did come armed to my room, to everyone's rooms," Ben laughs, and he walks over to Eames at the mini-bar, who is pouring out a golden-hued wine. Ben picks up two of the glasses; he clinks one against Eames's, and then he walks back to Arthur, offers the last glass. "Cheers."

Arthur drifts over to Eames after a moment, and he murmurs, "Still think this is a good idea?"

"You're already snarking at him, Arthur, I can't see how that's wrong. I could listen to the two of you all day."

"Ah," and here Arthur lets one hand drop, curving possessively on Eames's shoulder, "but do you want to listen to us talking, or should we be doing something else?"

"I like the way you think," Eames chuckles, and he winds his arm around Arthur's shoulders and Arthur lets himself be pulled into a kiss.

When they break away, breathless, Arthur laughs and drains his wine, and walks away, and behind his back he motions Eames onto the foot of the bed.

He can see the appraisal in Ben's eyes, the knowing little smirk, and Arthur lets his grin become wolflike, eager, and he strides right up to the other man and kisses him, without preamble. He winds his hands through Ben's hair, nips playfully at his bottom lip, teases him with teeth and tongue.

They break apart when there's a long, low whistle from the bed, and it takes Arthur a few more seconds to be aware of Ben's hands, huge and dotted with calluses, one at the back of his head, one curved around his neck. The scene flashes past him: Eames biting his obscenely full lips, the wild-eyed need in Ben's eyes, his own blood thrumming a familiar beat, heat running down his spine.

So he does the only appropriate thing to do - and that is walk backwards, pulling on Ben's lapels, three steps and then he's dropping into Eames's lap. "Watch," he says, and he sees Ben's eyes grow even wider when Eames laughs, knowingly, and reclaims his already kiss-swollen mouth. "Give him a show, Eames," he mutters, "show him what we're here for."

"Wish," Eames says, and ducks his head, licks a hot stripe up Arthur's neck, "command."

///

It's like a dream, because suddenly Arthur's mind transitions from being fully-clothed and kissing Eames to being down to his boxer-briefs, pressed up against Ben's front and undoing his buttons; Eames is pressed up behind Ben, kissing him with a hand on his jaw, already naked.

On the other hand, he actually does remember how they got here - Ben tackling them both into the covers, arms winding around them both, and Arthur and Eames looking at each other between kisses and pinning Ben in the cage of their arms.

Ben groans and whips away from Eames and sinks his teeth into Arthur's shoulder, rubs shamelessly against him and Arthur obliges Ben by stripping him of his remaining clothing. Eames's knee is poking out between Ben's thighs, and Arthur ruts against that, too, winds his arms around Ben's neck, round the back of Eames's head, and he presses them both into him, their warmth and their musk washing over him.

It only takes a moment, and then it's Ben and Eames's turn to exchange knowing smiles, and they bear Arthur down into the mattress, and Eames is sucking a bruise into his throaand he's grabbing for Ben's shoulders as he slithers down Arthur's sweat-soaked torso, tonguing the fine trail of hair that leads down from his navel.

"Decide what you want," Arthur growls, "before this all becomes a moot point and we'll have to wait before we can get it up again."

And Arthur feels his eyebrows rising again, as Eames and Ben look at each other, and he catches his breath when they both look at him - and he laughs and he opens his arms to both of them.

"Arthur sandwich it is, then," Ben laughs, his voice all broken and filthy, and Arthur watches him haul himself back to the pillows, flopping down next to him, and Arthur gives in to the sight and kisses him before turning him over so he's facing away.

"Eames?" Arthur asks hoarsely, and there's something being pressed into his hand - packets of lube, a condom - and Arthur applies himself to Ben's back, licks the beads of sweat off his skin. Hand snaking around to Ben's cock, learning its shape and contours. He listens to Ben, who is gasping for each breath; melts backward into Eames as he carefully peels the boxer-briefs off, finally.

Arthur slicks up Eames's fingers for him, and Eames pours most of another packet over Arthur's hand. They kiss, murmur to each other - "Love you" / "Always" - and then Arthur pulls Ben back tightly against his chest. "Ready," he whispers, and he smiles when Ben can't do much more than nod his head frantically.

Arthur throws his head back suddenly as Eames's finger enters him; he feels the muscle flexing around the intrusive digit, feels the breath being knocked out of his lungs as he's stretched.

Ben, too, is tight around him, and the blood is rushing in his ears, the keening noise he's tearing out of the other man, and Arthur works him hard, scissoring his fingers viciously and suddenly Ben's hand is clamping around his wrist, and he's nearly sobbing. "Enough, enough, I'm so close...."

And Arthur nearly isn't able to reply because, damn him, Eames chooses that moment to brush against his prostate and it's like a lightning strike down every nerve, and he nearly buckles against the rush of sensations.

"Ready?" Eames murmurs, and Arthur draws in a deep breath and as Eames pushes into him he pulls Ben close, slowly sinks in under Eames's weight.

Eames moves, a slow rocking motion, and Arthur hisses as he's pushed deeper into Ben, hotwettight around him.

Their hands are all linked together, hips and shoulders tensing. Arthur is trying to smile at the obscenities spilling from Ben's mouth - but he's also effectively distracted by Eames, Eames who is setting the pace for all three of them, who is gasping out their names in a hypnotic chant, and it doesn't take long and Arthur buries his shout between Ben's heaving shoulders, reaches around to jack him off hard, and then Eames bites Arthur's shoulder as his hips stutter and jerk through his orgasm.

///

Arthur has to laugh, weakly, in the end, because they're all carrying each other's teethmarks, the tiny welts decorating their shoulders and their necks and, in Ben's case, his wrists as well.

They clean up and they settle in to nap, and Arthur pushes Eames into the middle between him and Ben, and he feels the two of them kiss him at the same time: Eames on the top of his head, Ben on his mouth, and he drifts off, smiling and content.  



End file.
